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I release them too.
‘Say my name.’ My breath is hot against his skin.
‘Alice.’ Thomas’s voice, still confident but now laced with passion rather than derision, sends goosebumps down my spine. ‘Alice.’
The thought of this man wanting me as much as I want him has me grinding on top of him, desperate to get closer. Threads pull and split as I rip his thin cashmere sweater over his head before attacking his button-down shirt. Only Thomas would wear a sweater and button-down shirt in Las Vegas.
The small ivory discs ping against the marble floor, as I rip his shirt open, the sound, along with Thomas’s groans, create a hypnotic soundtrack to my erotic fantasy.
He twists, helping me push the fabric off his shoulders, then shrugging it the rest of the way off.
What’s revealed makes me pause.
Freckles. Thomas Moore has freckles on his chest.
An image of this stiff and proper man shirtless in the sun has me licking my lips, as if tasting the salty tang of his sweat. His chest flexes under my gaze. Smiling, I lean forward, biting around a group of freckles above his heart. His hiss blows over my ear, sending goosebumps across my body as I continue to nibble. All while riding the hard ridge of his lap.
His hand fists my hair, pulling my mouth up to his. Tongues swirl, teeth graze and the heat intensifies as our bodies press closer. So close that my knees strain against the arms of the chair.
Bracing my hands on his bare shoulders, I rise.
Things gets blurry, my movements suddenly heavy and slow, but when it refocuses, I’m naked. Thomas’s eyes bore into me, all over me, from his seat in the chair. His expression declaring that I’m something worth salivating over. As if I’m Aphrodite rather than a scrawny girl-woman with limited experience.
I’ve never wanted something more. To feel wanted. And not only wanted but wanted by Thomas Moore. A man so discerning, so intriguing, so completely out of my league it’s laughable.
And I do, the giggle erupting from my chest in one short but powerful exhale.
The corner of his non-bruised eye crinkles as he smiles in return.
Wow. If Thomas Moore is attractive while being sour and aloof, he is downright orgasm-inducing when he smiles. As proof, my whole body shivers, set off by tiny pre-orgasmic sparks of pleasure.
He speaks, low and soft. ‘What next?’
I almost falter, overwhelmed with feelings and choices – my mind clearing enough to want to debate the right and wrong of the situation.
Swallowing back my indecision, I think What Would Leslie Do. And Leslie would continue doing whatever the fuck she wanted.
‘Here.’ I point to the spot in front of me.
My luck holds as, still smiling, he pushes off on the armrests to stand before me. The brow over his good eye arches.
I reach out, tugging on his belt. ‘Off.’
Time slows down. The tinkle of metal on metal, the swoosh of leather sliding across denim, the cascade of fabric as it falls to the floor. Until only his grey boxer briefs remain.
For a moment I’m dumbfounded. Not only by the very large and very hard bulge straining behind the silky, athletic fabric, but because I was so sure that a man of his reserved nature would coordinate his uptightness with tighty-whities.
Maybe it’s Vegas. Maybe Lady Luck is smiling upon me. Because I’m pretty sure I just hit the jackpot.
Stepping closer, I glide my hands down his chest and over his abs, which tighten under my touch. On a deep inhale, one of expensive cologne, whiskey and desire, I move closer still, my hands dipping into the elastic waistband at the back, fingertips digging into the firm flesh underneath.
It’s delicious – the scent, the heat, his ass.
Thankful to have solid muscles to help steady me as I tug his briefs down, I drop to my knees and proceed to smack myself in the face with his dick. I laugh, blinking while wondering if this is considered karma, but my laughter fades as I refocus on the XXX before me.
I blink a few times, wondering if it’s the alcohol or my day’s penis overload that makes me disbelieve my eyes.
I’ve been surrounded by cocks all day. Girthy ones, vibrating ones, neon-colored ones. But on my knees, facing the very real, very hard penis less than an inch away from my mouth, I take a moment to thank everyone involved, including Mike Hunt, for orchestrating such an outlandish wedding weekend that led me to this moment. To this perfect penis.
